Chapter 3
Luke
The van rattles over ruts, suspension groaning with each pothole. I sit in the front passenger seat, one boot braced against the dash, watching the ridges through the windshield. Our driver—a local guide named Petru—keeps up a steady stream of commentary, gesturing at rock formations with one hand while the other steers us around the worst of the damage.
“You see this?” He points at a cliff face striped with sedimentary layers. “Very old. Jurassic period, maybe older. You are geologists, yes? You will love this region. So many secrets in the stone.”
“That’s the plan,” I say.
In the back, Ember leans forward between the seats. “How long have you lived here?”
“All my life. My father, his father… we are from these mountains.” Petru’s pride comes through thick in his accentedEnglish. “People come, people go, but the mountains remain. They remember everything.”
“Everything?” Mara’s voice carries from the far back seat, where she’s been scrolling through her phone. “Like what?”
Petru laughs. “Old stories. Dragons, witches, vampires. Tourists love these tales. But the mountains know the truth.”
“Which is?” Ember asks.
“That truth is stranger than any story.” He shoots her a grin in the rearview mirror. “You will see. The Carpathians do not give up their secrets easily.”
I glance back. Ember’s expression is rapt, engaged. She catches me looking, and her eyes widen slightly, color rising in her cheeks, before she sits back.
My dragon stirs. Interested.
What the fuck?
My beast needs a leash. There’s no room in my world for little girls.
Not that it’s even an option.
I face forward again.
“How far to the village?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if the road is bad near the river.” Petru downshifts as we climb. “You have been to Romania before?”
“Once. Different region.”
“Ah. Then you know. We are not like the cities. Here, things move slower. People remember the old ways.” He taps his temple. “This is good for your work, I think. The old ways and the old stone, they speak to each other.”
Behind me, Mara snorts. “The old ways. Right.”
Petru glances at her in the mirror, his expression amused. “You do not believe in old ways?”
“I believe in algorithms and metadata,” Mara says. “But sure, if the mountains want to chat, I’m listening.”
“You Americans. Always so practical.” He laughs again, warm and genuine. “But practicality will not explain everything you find here. Some things…” He trails off, shrugs. “Some things must be experienced.”
The road curves through a valley where mist clings to the pines. Sunlight breaks through in shafts, turning the fog golden. Ember has her face pressed to the window again, camera out, snapping photos.
“First time to these mountains?” Petru asks her.
“First time anywhere outside the U.S.,” she admits.
“Then you are lucky. The Carpathians at this time of year… there is nothing more beautiful.” He slows as we approach a small settlement, wooden houses with steep roofs clustered along the road. “And here we stop. You need supplies, yes? Water, food for the field?”
“That’s the idea,” I say.
